


Looking for Stars

by Sarren



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8876008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: Events prompt Trixie to reassess her feelings and her future.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitteratiglue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Izzy, for an absolutely fantastic beta job :)

She didn’t care a bit. She was the one who had broken it off, after all. Tom could step out with whomever he liked. And Barbara was lovely. In fact, they were a perfect match. Much better than he and Trixie had been. She’d been fooling herself, fooling them both, believing even for a moment that she could be a suitable wife for Tom. Oh, but she’d wanted to. But just because Tom wasn’t the man for her, it didn’t mean that Mr Right wasn’t going to come along sooner or later.

Outside, Tom leant forward and kissed Barbara, an ardent kiss. Barely respectable for a man of the cloth, right there in the street where anyone could see them, even if there was hardly anybody about at that time of night. Clearly their relationship had become serious. No doubt they’d be announcing their engagement any day now. Trixie swiped away angry tears. Tom’s head tilted, as though to look up towards her window, and Trixie yanked the curtain closed, her heart thumping.

She opened her mouth to say something snide, something she didn’t mean but would make her feel better, and closed it again as she took in the drawn expression on Patsy’s face, the slump of her shoulders as she sat on the bed leafing through their latest edition of Vogue. Now that Trixie thought about it, Patsy hadn’t been her usual cheerful self for a while now. Not since Delia had moved back home to Wales. Patsy had put on a brave face after her friend’s accident, but Trixie hadn’t been fooled. Patsy had been terribly cut up about it.

Trixie looked longingly at her drinks drawer, now empty. Once, she would have broken the ice with a stiff drink or two. This time she’d have to rely on sympathy and charm. Luckily, she had plenty of both of those. Trixie took a determined breath and fixed a kind smile on her face. 

“Sweetie,” she started, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and sitting forward so that Patsy could see that she meant this to be a serious conversation. “I can’t help but notice that you seem a bit down, lately.”

“It’s nothing,”

“Obviously it’s not nothing,” Trixie said, leaning forward to take Patsy’s hand. “You’re as limp as a wet rag.”

Patsy smiled wryly at that. “Thank you.”

“You know what I mean. Tell me?” Trixie asked, tilting her head invitingly.

“Really, Trixie, I’m fine,” Patsy insisted. Her eyes were downcast; she was staring at their joined hands.

Patsy wasn’t ready to confide in her. Well, Trixie certainly couldn’t throw stones through that glass house. She squeezed Patsy’s hand and let go, sitting back. “Well, sweetie, I’m here if you want to talk. I do understand, you know. But take it from someone who‘s been keeping secrets all her life: it usually helps to talk to someone. If not me, perhaps one of the others? We all care about you.”

“Trixie, I know you mean well, but leave it. Please.”

Trixie stared at her bowed head and hunched shoulders a few moments longer. “I think we could both do with a nice cuppa,” she decided, standing up. “Shall we go and see if Sister Monica Joan has got to the tea cake yet?”

“Topping idea,” Patsy agreed, standing up as well. She started to open the door, then stopped, pursing her lips as though she wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how. Trixie smiled at her encouragingly. Instead, Patsy stepped forward and gave Trixie a brief, awkward hug.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are very welcome,” Trixie said. “Now, let’s see about that cake.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why are we here?” Trixie asked, looking around at the old bomb site that no one had got around to redeveloping yet. It had cleared areas, and in places cubby houses had been created from old bricks and pieces of wood. When Patsy had suggested the two of them go for a refreshing bicycle ride, Trixie had assumed they would ride along the docks, as they had done more than once before, perhaps stopping somewhere for a spot of dinner. She quite fancied the idea of fish and chips.

“I found this place the other week. I wanted to show it to you.”

“A dumping ground for rubbish. You do bring me to the nicest places!” Trixie said, smiling to show that she was joking. Sort of.

“I asked around. This used to be a row of tenements, until the war. The residents were relocated after the bombs fell. Now it’s council-owned. I was thinking, perhaps we could prevail upon the council to turn it into a park with a playground for the children.”

“What a lovely idea.” Trixie looked around, imagining the piles of rubble and accumulated rubbish replaced by swings and trees and paths with flower beds. “Most of the poor lambs wouldn’t recognise a decent bit of greenery if they fell over it.”

“How do you propose to convince the council?”

“Well,” Patsy said, decisively, “I was thinking, if we presented them with a plan —if we rounded up some volunteers to clean up the rubbish, so that all the council has to do is take it away, and convinced local business owners to contribute funds towards equipment and supplies —with suitable recognition of their contribution, of course— we could arrange for some local talent to build the playground.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Trixie agreed. “If the community come together to build the playground they’ll be more likely to use it and take care of it.” She smiled at Patsy. “You really are a marvel.”

“You really like it?” Patsy asked, smiling back at Trixie in a way that, confusingly, made Trixie’s cheeks warm. Flustered, she settled herself back onto the bicycle seat and put her foot on the pedal. 

She was about to suggest they get on when a faint sound caught her attention. She saw Patsy look around, a crease between her brows.

“Did you hear that?”

“I heard something… I'm not sure…”

The sound came again, a faint call for help, hoarse and despairing, as if the person had been calling for hours.

“This way!” Patsy dropped her bike and ran over to where the wall of one of the crumbling tenements had collapsed completely. Trixie got off her own bike and let it down more gently before following her.

“Hello?” Patsy was calling, “Is somebody there?”

“Oh, thank God,” the person sobbed, in what was more clearly a woman’s voice now that they were closer. “Help me, I’m trapped.”

Patsy stopped by a gap in the broken bricks and mortar and splintered wooden beams. “Here,” she said to Trixie, and crouched down by the hole, peering in. “Hello,” she called. “Are you down there?”

“Yes!” the woman cried. “I’m here!”

“It looks like there’s space to climb out just here. Do you think you could manage?”

The woman sobbed again. “I can’t,” she cried. “Please help me.”

Trixie knelt on a relatively smooth area of the piles, resigning herself to the inevitable destruction of her stockings. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she called. “We’re here to help. Now, first things first. Are you injured?”

“No, but I think my baby’s coming.”

“Oh, Lord,” Patsy sighed, smiling ruefully at Trixie.

Trixie returned her smile, then peered down the hole again. “Well, luckily for you, we’re midwives,” she called. “What’s your name?”

“Maisie. Maisie Wood.”

“Well then, Maisie. We’re just going to figure out what to do.”

“Don’t leave me!”

“We won’t, we promise,” Trixie assured her, trying to sound reassuring.

“Poor dear is terrified,” Patsy said.

“Understandably,” Trixie said. “What shall we do?”

“One of us goes for help, the other one stays here and talks her through it?” Patsy suggested, sounding doubtful. “Just as though we were on the telephone.”

“That won’t do,” Trixie said firmly. She peered into the small hole. “One of us will have to go in, and I’m smaller than you, I’m sorry to say,” she said, smiling crookedly.

“I used to go hiking as a girl, after the war,” Patsy argued. “I’ve more experience climbing than you.”

“Well, my exercise classes have made me more limber than you,” Trixie pointed out, not without some pride.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Patsy said, smiling slyly. There was something in her tone, in the way that she was looking at Trixie, that made Trixie’s heart beat faster.

“Are you still there?” Maisie called. She let out an unmistakable groan of effort.

“We’re right here, sweetie,” Trixie said, chastened to have been distracted, even for a moment. “Try to keep calm. Could you take some slow, even breaths for me, please?”

“There’s something wrong,” she sobbed. “I think I’m bleeding.”

“That settles it, I’m going down,” Trixie said firmly, determinedly not thinking about what that was going to entail. “You call for an ambulance. There’s a telephone box up on High Street, remember?”

“All right,” Patsy agreed, obviously reluctantly. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Give me the torch from your bike.” Trixie hurriedly crossed to her own bike and detached her own. 

“Good thinking,” Patsy said, handing hers over and turning her bike to face the road again. “Good luck,” she said, and briefly caught Trixie’s hand in her own and gave it a squeeze. Before Trixie could think to return the pressure, Patsy had let go and pushed off, cycling off at a brisk pace. 

Later, Trixie would remember that climb as one descending into the depths of hell. She carefully picked her way over rubble that shifted under her feet, lit only by the light of the bike torch, the noise of shifting rocks as they rattled into the depths never quite drowning the frightened whimpering of the poor woman below. She had to force herself to feel her way, placing her feet tentatively at first until she was confident the ground wouldn’t shift anymore, using one hand for balance on the steep parts. She clutched her torch and medical bag tightly in her other, praying she wouldn’t slip and have to let go of them to hold on with both hands. She’d be no help to either of them if she slipped and injured herself or, God forbid, landed on her patient. In the end it couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet, although it felt like it took her an hour to get down.

Trixie shone her torch around, relieved to see that the cellar itself, as far as she could tell, seemed relatively undamaged on the side in which Maisie huddled against the wall. Once she was as certain as she could be that the ceiling wasn’t about to come down around their ears, she determinedly put the possibility out of her mind to focus on her patient. She crouched beside Maisie and opened her bag, retrieving her gloves. Maisie clutched at her, sobbing with relief, then moaned as another contraction racked her small body. “There, there,” Trixie said, using her most reassuring yet confident tone; in the darkness pressing upon them she’d need to provide a lot of verbal reassurance. She gave Maisie’s arm a squeeze in return. “Everything will be right as rain, you’ll see.”

Trixie lodged the torch in a ledge about shoulder level, tilted so that the area she’d be working in was well lit, and then cleared a space of rubble and assisted Maisie to a reclining position. Then she donned the gloves and, speaking gently and reassuringly all the while, checked on the baby’s progress by the light of the second torch, relieved to confirm that what Maisie had been afraid had been blood had just been her water breaking. It was her first baby, Trixie established through gentle questioning. The poor girl was sadly uninformed of the process and she’d been lying there for hours, terrified and alone. She refused to answer when Trixie asked her how she’d come to be there, and Trixie didn’t push her, worried that she would upset her further. 

“Everything progressing according to plan,” she announced brightly instead. “If I’m not mistaken, baby won’t be too long now.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Trixie agreed, privately praying that she was right.

Thankfully, with Trixie coaching her through her contractions and holding her hand firmly in the shadowy darkness until it was time to ease baby in to the world, Maisie was delivered of a healthy baby boy. She sobbed with relief at the sound of his piercing cry. Trixie took a deep relieved breath of her own. She wrapped the child in her cardigan, determinedly repressing a shiver as the chill prickled at her arms, and placed him in Maisie’s reaching arms. “Do you know what you are going to name him yet?” she asked, as Maisie settled the baby on her breast.

The subject of potential baby names kept Maisie distracted as Trixie disposed of the afterbirth out of reach and examined her again. Maisie had been lucky; tearing had been minimal. Trixie was proud of herself that her fingers didn’t shake as she popped in a couple of stitches, grateful that the task was second nature now, simple enough even with the terrible lighting and the darkness that loomed in her peripheral vision. She swabbed the area with alcohol afterwards, holding Maisie’s free hand tightly with her own at her pained whimper, then stripped off her gloves and settled down close by Maisie’s side. Sharing body warmth would be critical if they were to be there much longer. 

When Maisie fell into an exhausted doze, Trixie stirred herself to wrap the cardigan more securely around little Terence, sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. Then she took a deep fortifying breath and forced herself to turn off the light that had dimly illuminated their faces. She had no way of knowing how long rescue would be, or how long the batteries would last.

In the pitch darkness the chill pressed closer, permeating her very bones. Trixie shivered and drew her legs up, hugging them to her chest. Her stockings were definitely ruined from kneeling in the rubble, her knees scraped and no doubt bleeding. Without the light, or the company of another person to take her mind off her thoughts, it was hard to keep the worry at bay. 

Time was meaningless in the Stygian darkness. What she wouldn’t give for a Campari right now. Or a Scotch. Just something to calm her nerves. At first she sang to herself, softly, unwilling to risk waking poor Maisie, but the sound was swallowed immediately. She thought about her fitness classes; about Mrs Clark and Mrs Osborne, and the others who could barely manage to lower themselves to the ground, let alone attempt the more athletic exercises. Perhaps she could run a separate class tailored for the older ladies, build their fitness up more gradually. Trixie had just managed to successfully divert herself when she heard the most welcome sound in the world, the sound of Patsy calling her name.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took forever for the cold to leave her bones. For once, Nonnatus House rules were waived and Trixie soaked in Radox and rose-scented bubble bath until the tips of her fingers and toes looked like prunes, draining the bath enough to top it with hot water from the taps whenever it stopped gently steaming. Bubbles preserved her modesty as Patsy perched on a stool by her side. Patsy had been uncharacteristically attentive, checking on her frequently from outside the door, and bringing in fresh warmed towels in case Trixie was ready to get out when Trixie told her to stop being silly and to come in already. Trixie had found herself asking Patsy to stay, to keep her company. She didn’t want to be alone right now.

Now Patsy was hugging the towels to her chest and looking at Trixie with admiration and something else, something else that Trixie wasn’t sure how to interpret but that, inexplicably, made her feel shy. “Fred says that everyone is saying that you should get a medal for this,” Patsy said.

Trixie stared at her toes, peeking through the bubble foam at the end of the tub. “Are they?” she said, idly. The nail polish was an especially daring shade of red. Trixie loved it. It had cost a ridiculous sum of money from Selfridges, and was worth every penny.

“Yes, you are quite the heroine of the day.”

“Anybody here would have done the same.”

“One would like to think so.”

“You wanted to yourself, if you remember?”

“I certainly did _not_ want to,” Patsy said, her eyes wide. “I was quite petrified at the idea of climbing into that hole.” Patsy looked far away for a moment. “I am not fond of small spaces.”

“There you go, then,” Trixie pointed out. “That makes you more of a heroine than I, because you still would have gone down there, even as much as you hated the idea.”

“I don’t believe it was at all easy for you, either,’ Patsy insisted, looking at Trixie with eyes that saw too much.

The nail polish was a bit chipped, Trixie decided. Reapplication _tout de suite_ was in order.

Trixie didn’t want to think about it. Not thinking about it had worked for her so far… Trixie caught herself —not thinking about it had only worked because she’d had alcohol to help numb the painful thoughts. She knew better now.

“I’m not entirely sure what you want from me.”

“I want you to talk to me.” Patsy was looking at her so earnestly. Trixie found she had to look away. Just for something to do, she scooped up a handful of bubbles and watched them melt through her spread fingers as Patsy continued softly, “Trixie, you went through a rough time today. You’re not alright. I can see that.” 

She was one to talk! “Fine,” Trixie said, suddenly annoyed, and glared up at Patsy. “ _Quid pro quo_.”

Patsy’s face creased with confusion and Trixie thought she was going to have to spell it out, but then Trixie saw the penny drop. For a moment Patsy’s eyes slid away from hers and Trixie thought, with a pang of disappointment and, yes, hurt, that Patsy was going to push her away again. But then Patsy nodded in agreement and looked back at her and, to Trixie’s surprise, Patsy’s fair complexion blushed quite a rosy shade of pink. “Um, Trixie,” she mumbled, averting her eyes again, and held out a towel.

Trixie glanced down to find that the bubbles had nearly dispersed, leaving her completely exposed. For a moment Patsy’s reaction made no sense to her. Patsy wasn’t prudish like the nuns; they were both women together. And then the penny didn’t so much drop as bludgeon her in the head.

“Oh,” she said softly, reaching automatically for the held out towel, the end of which dragged into the water. And again, more emphatically, “ oh.”

“Trixie!” Patsy sounded mortified. She lurched to her feet, dropping the other towel heedlessly, and mumbled, “I’ll leave you alone,” and was gone before Trixie could process what had happened.

She lay in the bath until goose pimples started to form on her arms. No one bothered her to come out for dinner, or for a turn in the bathroom. Everything made sense now. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. How upset Patsy had been when her friend had been injured, the friend she had planned to live with, until the accident. How down in the dumps she’d been when Delia moved back to Wales. Even though she’d tried to put a brave face on for the others, she’d let her guard down in the sanctuary of their room, trusting Trixie not to pry after that one time Trixie had asked about it. 

But that was ages ago. Patsy had been happier recently, more like herself, and with that thought, Trixie couldn’t help remembering instances when Patsy had said… Patsy had looked at her like…

Had Patsy been _flirting_ with her?

Trixie shivered. What was she going to do? Pretend nothing had happened? Patsy would take her cue from her. They could both go on as they had before. Nothing had to change. She hoped Patsy knew that Trixie didn’t judge her. Trixie firmly believed that people should be just left alone to get on with their lives to find what happiness they could.

Patsy wouldn’t… _expect_ anything of her. Trixie wasn’t like her. Wasn’t like… that.

Trixie couldn’t help picturing Patsy’s warm eyes on her suddenly, the intimate tone when she’d made _those_ comments, and a frisson of something like heat shivered through her, an echo of the sensation that she’d experienced when Tom had kissed her. She couldn’t help wondering, suddenly, if Patsy’s hand on the small of her back would produce the same electric feeling as Tom’s had, if she’d feel the same indefinable longing for her to touch her more intimately, to pursue that electric sensation.

No, she wasn’t like that. She didn’t want to be like that. She wanted to get married, have children. Be normal. Mr Right was out there somewhere, she just had look harder.

 

Things with Patsy were unbearably awkward for about a week. Patsy obviously was trying very hard to act like nothing had happened, that there wasn’t this new knowledge between them. A couple of times Trixie saw her face crease, saw her mouth purse, could tell that Patsy wanted to say something, to what, to deny what Trixie now knew? To try and make excuses? Both times Trixie cut her off, pointedly changed the subject, and ignored the tightness of her throat and the uncomfortable feeling in her tummy at the expression of hurt that settled on Patsy’s face after the second time Trixie rebuffed her.

Then suddenly things were fine again. Patsy no longer tried to talk to her about anything uncomfortable, anything intimate… no longer settled next to her on other bed when Trixie was polishing her nails or touching up her make up… no longer asked her opinion on the fashions in the magazines she was browsing through.

Trixie had no right to feel hurt. It was not like Patsy was giving her the cold shoulder or anything, it was just… not the same. She missed their late night conversations about nothing and everything: the terrible or wonderful days they’d had, the latest film showing at the cinema, whether or not Sister Monica Joan really believed that she was pulling the wool over their eyes with her protestations of innocence over the latest baked good grand theft. 

She missed Patsy. She missed her friend.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trixie was thinking about Grace Kelly when she knocked on Tom’s door. Actually, she was wondering what screen legends Patsy would pin over her bed were she free to do so. Diana Dors, perhaps; she was lovely. Trixie was thinking that of the two, she fancied the American. Grace Kelly had an air of effortless elegance to which Trixie herself aspired. Absentmindedly, she opened the door, completely forgetting that, of course, she didn’t have that right anymore and froze, the book of sermons Sister Julienne had asked her to drop off to Tom falling from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

The two lovers leapt apart and stared at her, looking nearly as mortified and helpless as Trixie felt.

“I beg your pardon,” she said automatically, as Barbara fumbled to do up the buttons of her blouse. Tom made a half aborted attempt to shield her from Trixie’s eyes, but Trixie could still see Barbara’s face under the dishevelled hair fall over her face and the deep, humiliated red of her cheeks. Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked like he was having trouble meeting Trixie’s eyes. 

“Trixie,” he started, holding out a hand in an appealing gesture.

“I should have knocked,” Trixie said blankly, stiffening her back. “This is none of my bus—”

“We’re engaged!” Tom blurted.

“Tom!” Barbara gasped.

“Well, we are, and I’m tired of hiding it.”

“We agreed—”

“It’s never going to be a good time, is it?”

It looked like the two of them had forgotten she was even in the room, which would have suited Trixie fine, except: “Because of me, you mean,” she said and she could hear the brittle tone in her voice.

She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. They were engaged. They must be, of course, to be so intimate.

Tom had never presumed to more than a kiss from Trixie. His hands had never wandered, he’d never looked so hot and bothered and, yes, Trixie averted her eyes quickly, staring instead at Tom’s hands, clenched by his sides now. Tom was clearly aroused.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Trixie said, salvaging what she could of her dignity. She stepped backward through the door, closing it gently behind her, and fled.

 

Of course, every resident of Nonnatus House was in the hall when Trixie hurried past. Sister Julienne called out something; Trixie caught a flash of the concerned expression on her face. God only knew what her own face looked like, that made Sister Mary Cynthia reach out a hand to her as Trixie hurried past, the hand falling away when Trixie didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Their obvious concern just made the tears behind her eyes burn more fiercely. She couldn’t let them see, have them wonder; she wouldn’t be able to hold it together if she had to explain, not when she had to clench her jaw against the urge to scream out loud.

She was barely aware of another person on the stairs as she ran up them, but then someone blocked her way and she looked up. “Trixie?” Patsy’s face was creased with concern and Trixie felt her iron control wavering. For weeks she’d been missing her friend and now, this, this… She shook her head and hurried past her up the rest of the stairs. She all but flew to her room, closing the door with a bang that made her wince despite her preoccupation.

Patsy entered the room more quietly, leaning back against the closed door. “Trixie, what’s happened?”

“Oh, _now_ you want to talk to me?” Trixie snapped, hating herself for lashing out. She turned her back on Patsy, pressing her hand to her mouth.

“That’s not fair,” Patsy said quietly, perching on the edge of her bed.

Trixie’s fingers twitched. For a cigarette. For a drink. “No, it’s not,” she allowed, breathing deeply to keep angry tears at bay. “I’m not good company right now, Patsy. You really don’t want to be anywhere near me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Patsy was looking up at Trixie with such concern. She cared about Trixie, maybe more than anyone, now that Tom...that Tom... and what if Patsy cared about Trixie the same way Tom had? Would that be a bad thing? What about the feelings that Patsy stirred in Trixie when she looked at her, those feelings that Trixie wouldn’t let herself acknowledge, that she brushed away, buried in the back of her mind with all of the other things she didn’t like to remember?

“I’d kill for a cigarette right now,” Trixie muttered, pacing from the window to the door and back.

Patsy reached under her mattress and produced a battered looking cigarette packet. “It’s not your brand…. ”

Oh, thank God. “Patsy, you’re an absolute lifesaver!” Trixie said, grabbing the packet and shaking out two cigarettes, holding up the second one for Patsy to see.

“Oh, go on, then. Just one now and then can’t hurt, surely.”

Patsy didn’t say anything else till after Trixie had smoked her way through the cigarette. Trixie settled on her bed, feeling less disordered, though how much of that was due to the cigarette and how much her friend’s patient, undemanding company, she couldn’t be sure.

“Another?” Patsy asked, although the packet had disappeared again.

“Best not,” Trixie said, smiling slightly. “I can almost feel Timothy Turner’s eyes boring into me right now. His description of the horrible effect on the lungs is enough to put one off smoking for life!”

“Quite,” Patsy said. Then, abruptly: “We don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“You needn’t apologise for caring enough to be there for me, despite my foul mood and terrible manners.”

“Something upset you. If I can help…”

“ _Déjà vu_ ,” Trixie said, as the nagging sense of familiarity that had been tugging at her crystallised in her mind.

“Pardon?”

“A few months ago we had a very similar conversation, only it was me trying to help you.”

“I remember.”

“You didn’t want to talk, either.”

“I was worried you wouldn’t understand.”

“Patsy!” Trixie said, coming to sit down beside her friend. She took her hand and squeezed it. “I do understand, sweetie, but even if I didn’t, you can’t think I wouldn’t be there for you nonetheless?”

Patsy smiled, a little sadly, Trixie thought, as she stared down at their joined hands. “You are a loyal friend, Trixie, and I love you for it, but it’s not that simple.”

Suddenly it seemed simple. This wasn’t about Tom, or that hypothetical husband and children that she had always assumed lay in her future. This was about her feelings for her friend, the feelings she hadn’t allowed herself to put a name to, and whether she had the courage to do so now. Trixie leaned over, and, not letting herself hesitate in case Patsy took it the wrong way, pressed her lips to Patsy’s for a long moment. 

Patsy didn’t react. Didn’t return the kiss, didn’t move at all.

Oh God, had she got it wrong? Heat stained Trixie’s cheeks and she started to draw back. “Sorry,” she said, queasiness in her stomach from embarrassment and also, she realised, disappointment. “I thought… I assumed….”

“Trixie,” Patsy sighed, and her hand slid slowly along Trixie’s collarbone and along the nape, leaving behind an unexpected electric sensation, to clasp her neck, holding her gently in place. Patsy rested their foreheads together. “Trixie,” she murmured, “What are you doing?”

Trixie shrugged. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I just know that when you look at me —when you touch me— I feel something.”

“This isn’t about Tom?”

Trixie pulled back, and Patsy let her go, let her hand fall to her lap. Trixie took both of Patsy’s hands in her own. “Darling, you can’t think that I would kiss you as a rebound thing?”

“I think you’re confused.”

“Patsy,” Trixie said firmly, feeling the certainty in every fibre of her bones as she said the words. “I would like to kiss you. Or if you prefer, you may kiss me.” She pursed her lips playfully. “So, if you wouldn’t mind getting on with it?” 

Patsy leant forward and kissed Trixie. At first it wasn’t much different to being kissed by Tom. Patsy’s lips were softer, and she smelled divinely of strawberries in summer, but the shivery sensation, the indefinable ache for something more: that was the same. Trixie slid her arms around Patsy’s waist, returning the pressure of her lips, and Patsy made a noise in her throat, a moan, and deepened the kiss, and this wasn’t anything at all like Tom’s kiss. Trixie’s hands tightened on Patsy’s waist, holding on for dear life. She felt infected by Patsy’s urgency, and it wasn’t till she felt Patsy’s hand drifting along the neckline of her blouse, a trail of heat along Trixie’s skin, that Trixie realised that she was lying back against her pillow, with Patsy leaning over her, pressing her down against the eiderdown.

She must have made some sound herself, or stiffened. Patsy raised her head, stopped that trail of shivery heat to say, “Alright?” Trixie didn’t want to the delicious sensations to stop but she couldn’t think straight —it was happening so fast— they should probably talk about this more. She tried to think what to say, how to explain, although judging by the way Patsy’s expression softened into understanding, perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard. But then there was a quiet rap on the door that had Patsy lifting herself off Trixie and sitting demurely on her own bed by the time Sister Mary Cynthia stuck her head around the door to let them know that tea was ready. 

“Thank you, Sister,” Patsy said calmly. “We will be there momentarily.”

The door shut again and Trixie sat up, a hand pressed to her chest to where she could feel her heart pounding, excitement replaced by fear of discovery.

Patsy smiled at her, but Trixie could see the sadness behind it. Wanting to reassure her, Trixie took her hand. “You know, Nurse Crane was the one who suggested that my future didn’t have to involve a man,” she said, smiling crookedly. “Although I’m not sure this is what she meant.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Patsy said, and Trixie was relieved to see an amused look replace the sadness. “Just when one thinks one has Nurse Crane pegged, she surprises one again. I don’t believe she would judge us.”

“But others would.”

“Yes.” Patsy held up their joined hands. “Are you prepared for that?”

“For keeping secrets? I’m used to it,” Trixie said matter-of-factly.

Patsy’s hand tightened on hers. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“No one should have to,” Trixie agreed. “But sometimes it’s necessary.”

Trixie gently pulled her hand free. Slowly she reached up and cradled her Patsy’s face between her hands. Leaning forward, she watched her friend’s eyes drifted closed. Gently, she pressed a kiss to Patsy’s lips and then stood up. “Come on, sweetie,” she said, as Patsy opened her eyes again and blinked up at her. Trixie held out her hand. “Let’s go down. Together.”


End file.
